


capital-H

by sacrebleu0



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Weekly Updates, also im absurdly american so i have no fucking clue how british slang works, basically its baz and simon being walking disasters, baz and penny friendship, baz doesnt get kidnapped by numpties, baz is morosexual, first fic for carry on yay!, its not as penny focused as the desc makes it seem oops, kind of slow burn, my fave book of all time is finally getting a fic from me lmao, penny is the matchmaker, simon has a baz-playing-the-violin kink, so if im using it completely wrong dont judge me sfdshglgdshkj
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-22 15:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17665655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrebleu0/pseuds/sacrebleu0
Summary: Penelope Bunce lives a charmed life.Minutes after Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Grimm-Pitch confessed his undying love for Simon Snow to her, Simon Snow confessed his undying love for Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Grimm-Pitch to her. Both made her swear not to tell the other. Both are equally oblivious, which is an awfully kind word for "ridiculously thick."--Baz and Simon are oblivious idiots. What's new?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First Carry On fic, yaay! I'm so in love with this book oml. Here's my take on the mutual pining trope, ft. Penelope Bunce stuck in the middle!

**BAZ**

 

This is a horrible idea. Probably the worst idea he’s had in months.

 

When he pulls Penelope Bunce aside after their shared Magic Words class, all he can think about is how much he’s going to regret this. But at this point, he’s desperate.

 

He leads her to a relatively secluded area, where it’s certain that no passerby will hear, and he finally speaks. “Look, Bunce, I know we’re not exactly best buddies, but I have an important dilemma I need your help with.”

 

“Why’re you asking  _ me? _ ” she queries, a cynical eyebrow quirking behind tacky glasses.

 

“You know I wouldn’t ask you unless you were my only option,” Baz sneers, injecting his voice with false cockiness despite his drumming heartbeat. (Why does he even have a heartbeat, anyway? He technically shouldn’t, what with being undead and all.) (Vampirism is weird.)

 

She rolls her eyes and tucks a strand of magenta hair behind her ear. “Spit it out, Baz, I haven’t got all day.” He notices she’s chewing bubblegum, and she pops a bubble in her mouth.

 

 _It’s now or never, Basilton._ He summons his aloof and bored persona, ignoring the pounding anxiety in his chest, and admits as casually as possible, “I’m in love with Simon Snow.”

 

In an odd way, saying it out loud to a real person is cathartic to him. He’d never said it before, only thought it, tried to bottle it up as best he could. Saying it out loud lends it legitimacy, makes it true. It almost felt freeing, for a split second; the adrenaline rush of telling someone a deep, dark secret ran through his cold veins, followed by a wave of pure fear.

 

This was definitely not a good decision.

 

Penny’s frown instantly ceases, her expression unexpectedly opening to one of disbelief. “Y— B—  _ Simon _ ? Simon  _ Snow _ ? Your mortal enemy since first year?” sputters Penelope.

 

“The one and only,” Baz grimaces. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, as if trying to form a sentence from words that wouldn’t come to her. Baz didn’t blame her—he’d be speechless too. He  _ was _ speechless, when he first figured it out in fifth year.

 

Snow followed him around like a puppy tethered to his wrist for weeks, even months, and it was nigh impossible to think of anything (or anyone) else. Whenever he looked up from his meal in the dining hall, he’d see his stupidly beautiful face staring at him from across the room, stupidly blue eyes slightly squinted and stupid lips pursed. Baz would smirk at him, maybe wink if he really wanted to get on his nerves, and Snow’s lip would curl up and he’d turn back to Bunce and Wellbelove. Whenever he was just sitting in their room doing homework, Snow would sit on his bed and watch, like he was a specimen to be examined. At first, it was fun; he’d have some snarky response like “Take a picture, Snow, it’ll last longer,” and Snow would get all flustered and stammer a response about how he wouldn’t show up on film because he’s a vampire, and Baz would roll his eyes. He would pretend that it was because Snow was secretly madly in love with him, and then he’d wonder why he liked that thought so much and kept coming back to it. But then it got stressful, not having a minute of alone time to just...  _ think _ . And the weird-tingly-feelings-for-Snow situation definitely needed thought.

 

He figured it out when he went back to Hampshire for Christmas, and he couldn’t sleep. He barely slept for the entire week and a half he had off. He couldn’t figure out why--his bed was comfortable, moreso than his lumpy Watford one, and he finally had the room to himself, and it was home. It dawned on him that he might have been home, but he wasn’t capital-H Home. Home was looking over every once in a while and seeing Snow’s ugly sleeping face, mouth open and drool on his pillow. Home was hearing his quiet whimpers in his sleep through his nightmares, then hearing silence, then the relief of hearing him begin to gently snore again. Home was being woken up by nightmares of his own, then looking over at Snow and instantly feeling the fear melt from his bones. Home was being woken up by Snow accidentally knocking something over or stubbing his toe despite his best efforts to be silent enough as to avoid Baz’s wrath. (He was never actually angry when he woke him up early, but Snow didn’t need to know that.)

 

Since Baz couldn’t sleep, he had plenty of time to reflect upon whatever feelings he had for Snow. And reflect he certainly did.

 

“Are you taking the piss?” Penelope finally settles on.

 

“Trust me, I wouldn’t have said that sentence in a million years if it wasn’t true,” Baz grumbles.

 

Penelope’s face flushes, looking embarrassed  _ for _ him. “I guess that explains a lot,” she mumbles, deep in thought.

 

“Is it that obvious?” Baz says about an octave higher than he intended. He clears his throat. There goes his nonchalant facade out the window. He doesn’t like how quickly she accepts his crush as the truth—he was hoping she’d at least be  _ confused _ .

 

She snorts. “No, it just makes sense in retrospect.” She pauses again, then giggles. “Holy shit, Baz Pitch has a fucking  _ crush _ on Simon Snow, and he just admitted it to me, Simon Snow’s best friend. This is too priceless to be true,” she says, halfway to herself, in disbelief. “Why’d you tell me this?” she asks, turning skeptical.

 

Baz fiddles with the ring around his right middle finger for a second before shoving his hands in his pockets. “Because I need your help. It’s our last year, and I don’t know if I can stomach it anymore. It’s been—I’ve...” He has to pause for a second to collect his thoughts before continuing, shame filling his entire body in a way not dissimilar to when he first came out to his father as gay. “I’ve liked him since the beginning of our first year, and it’s become too much to bear. I need to do something about it, for better or for worse, and you’re the only one who can help me.”

 

Penny looks up at him, her eyebrows raised clear up to her hairline. “So, what I’m hearing is you want me to, what, be your  _ wingwoman? _ ”

 

Baz cringes. “I wouldn’t have phrased it so crudely, but in essence, yes. I need your help to make Snow fall in love with me. I’m absolute shit with feelings and flirting and whatnot, as I’m sure you’re aware, and you know him better than anyone else, so you’re going to help me.”

 

“What about Dev? Or Niall?”

 

“They’re probably the least socially conscious people I know, and the only thing they know about Snow is that I hate his guts. Which isn’t even true.” He runs a hand through his hair nervously.

 

He struggles to keep his composure under Penny’s scrutinizing glare. “As much as I would love to help you make a fool out of yourself, I can’t accept your offer. This is probably some weird plot to fuck with Simon, and I have my hands full with school anyway. Thanks for telling me though, I guess.”

 

Baz’s heart falls through his stomach. Panic begins to fill his being. He never thought that Penelope could’ve said  _ no _ . As she turns to leave, he grabs her arm, careful to mind his super strength. “Bunce, I don’t think you realize how important this is to me.” He intends for it to sound threatening, but it comes out much more pathetic.

 

She regards him with cold eyes. “Sure. Get one of your undead vampire buddies to help you.” She shakes his arm off.

 

“You can’t tell anyone, Bunce, I swear to God,” growls Baz, cursing like a Normal as boiling hot rage replaces his fear.

 

“No promises,” she sings, finally leaving.

 

Well,  _ fuck _ .

 

**PENELOPE**

 

Penelope practically skips to Mummers House, not caring if Baz is watching or not. In fact, she hopes he  _ is  _ watching. This is some next-level theory material, regardless if it’s true or not, and Simon needs to hear it immediately. It definitely isn’t true, but Simon would get a good laugh out of it anyway.

  
Is it?

 

She shakes her head as she walks, probably looking mad to the people passing by her. It’s just too preposterous. Baz Pitch, arsehole and vampire extraordinaire, can’t be in love with Simon Snow. They’re both straight, anyway, and Baz was doing... whatever he was doing with Agatha in the woods at the end of last year. Maybe he’s secretly in love with Agatha, and he told Penny he liked Simon to throw her off his trail. Yes, that must be it.  Much more likely than the alternative!

 

Even if he  _ were _ in love with Simon, he  _ definitely  _ wouldn’t have told Penny. They were enemies-by-association, Penny at his throat because Simon was, constantly battling for the title of top-of-class, only talking by way of clever insults and accusations. 

 

Wouldn’t he have done something sooner if he really were in love? Baz may not be the impulsive type, but he certainly isn’t the patient type either. He’s aggressive. He always gets what he wants.

 

She justifies herself all the way to Simon’s door, and it opens for her quickly. “Simon Snow, have I got news for you,” she announces, a catlike grin spreading across her face as she flops down on Baz’s bed. (If she was going to piss him off this bad, she might as well sit on his bed and ruin his perfectly made sheets. Rub salt in the wound, and all that.)

 

“I think I have something more important,” Simon says, his voice far more unsure than normal. She shoots up in bed to face him, the worry in his voice setting off alarm bells. What did he do this time? Kill another dragon? Get back together with Agatha? (Fat chance.) Pants the Mage? (More likely.)

 

**SIMON**

 

“You’re in love with  _ Baz? _ Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch? Your roommate, Baz? Vampire Baz? Plotting-all-the-time Baz?  _ That _ Baz?” Penny questions incredulously.

 

“Don’t rub it in,” groans Simon, hiding his no doubt cherry-red face in his hands.

 

This was a horrible idea, he just knew it. He’s at the end of his rope, though, after two weeks ( _ two weeks! _ ) of pure torture. Sharing a room with your crush (once you finally figure out they’re your crush) is torture.

 

Two weeks ago, he realized it. He didn’t know why he has just realized it then; nothing new or different had happened that radically changed their relationship. Baz had announced that he was taking a shower as he entered the en suite bathroom, and as Simon heard the water turn on, it hit him. He wasn’t even thinking about Baz, the thought just...  _ appeared  _ in his head.  _ I’m in love with him _ , the thought said, interrupting his Magic Words homework rather rudely. The revelation swept over him like a tide, like fitting the last piece of a puzzle in and the feeling of satisfaction that comes after. He was in love with him, and that’s why he’s been obsessed with him for the past seven and a half years, and that’s why he could never get him out of his mind, and that’s why he never had an interest in girls, even Agatha. That’s why the thought of Agatha being with Baz hurt him so much—he wasn’t jealous of Baz, he was jealous of  _ Agatha _ .

 

He wished there was an instruction book that told him what to do now.  _ So You Fell In Love With Your Mortal Enemy.  _ (The closest thing to an instruction book he has is Penny, so…)

 

Baz exited the bathroom not long after the discovery, and the sight of a shirtless and dripping wet Baz was too much for Simon to handle. He hadn’t realized his magic was building up in the room until he saw Baz and the expression he made, and his magic suddenly became unbearable, choking him with a suffocating heat. He bolted up and left, not even stopping to shrug on a coat in November. He went on a five-minute walk that turned to fifteen minutes that turned to thirty, and by the time he felt cooled down enough to return to the room without going off in a spectacular fashion, it was dinnertime.

 

He hoped that roast beef would solve his inner turmoil. It didn’t.

 

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of Baz being his normal douchey self and Simon being even easier to rise than normal. It wasn’t Baz’s fault Simon was so touchy nowadays; no, it was Simon being unreasonable, because by Merlin’s beard was it hard to reconcile being in love with your roommate-slash-mortal-enemy-who-also-tried-to-steal-your-girlfriend. By the time he decided to reach out to Penny, he almost went off every time Baz was in the room with him, and it was getting unbearable. He wondered what Baz thought was happening.

 

He never knows what Baz is thinking.

 

“How long?” Penny asks.

 

Simon takes a bite of a scone he smuggled back to his room from the dining hall in despair. “I don’t know, Pen. At least since fifth year? Probably earlier? Definitely earlier.” Even though he technically started this conversation, he wishes he could curl up into a ball and never talk about Baz ever again.

 

“So that’s why you followed him around twenty-four seven back then,” Penny snickers, a knowing smile on her face.

 

“Yeah,” Simon agrees, refusing to make eye contact. “You can never speak a word of this to anyone, you know,” he says, finally forcing himself to bring his eyes to hers.

 

Penny mimes a zipping motion over her mouth and throws away the key. “I promise,” she mouths.

 

“Good.” A silence hangs in the air, pregnant and awkward. “Can you... help me?” he finally squeaks out.

 

“Help you? With what?”

 

She must be playing dumb. The twat.

 

“Baz,” he spits, after trying (and failing) to articulate any of the approximately five million thoughts that were bouncing around in his head. “Just... I don’t know how to make him not hate me.”

 

Penny looks up at him with an emotion he can’t decipher. He’s notoriously bad at deciphering emotions. “I’ll help.”

 

“Oh thank Merlin,” Simon exhales, a weight having been lifted off his shoulders. “Hey, what was your thing you were gonna say earlier?”   
  
Penny laughs airily. “Nothing important.”

 

**PENELOPE**

 

Penelope Bunce leads such a fucking charmed life, doesn’t she?

 

**BAZ**

 

Baz returns from sulking (and hunting, but mostly sulking) in the woods to Penelope Bunce sitting on his bed. On  _ his  _ fucking bed. Mere hours after prancing off to tell his crush (which felt like such a childish word for it— _ crush _ —like he was some eleven year old with a fleeting interest in his roommate.) (Well. Maybe it  _ was  _ fitting.) his biggest secret, even above his vampirism: that he’s in love with him. “Get off the damn bed, Bunce, before I make you.”

 

“Anathema,” Snow mutters from his side of the room, obviously thinking he was being smart.

 

“Roommate’s Anathema only applies when it’s your fucking roommate, and last I checked, she shouldn’t even be allowed into the Mummers House.”

 

“Okay, I’ll leave, jeez. Baz, can I talk to you for a second though?” she says, standing and dusting off her skirt. He looks at her, waiting for her to continue. She shoots Snow a look, then turns and tucks her chin down, looking up at Baz. “Alone.” His eyebrow quirks despite his recent feed churning in his stomach. He knows that look, he knows how her lips lift for just a second as she pulls him outside, he knows the feeling of betrayal that he definitely shouldn’t have because he should’ve  _ known _ not to trust her. It’s not too late to leave Watford, is it? He could just run away.  Expatriate. Maybe go live in America. Change his identity.

 

“I think I may have made a hasty decision earlier today.” There it is.

 

“I can’t believe you just fucking told Snow, you barely waited until I was out of earshot, I can’t  _ fucking  _ believe—” he hisses.

 

“I didn’t bloody tell him! Let me finish before I change my fucking mind!” Bunce whisper-yells. (Baz really hopes that Snow can’t hear them through the door.)

 

“You didn’t?” Baz echos, dumbfounded.

 

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. “Of course I didn’t. I just talked to him like I normally do, and I think that maybe you two would be a good couple. I see it now.” Baz squints at her, hoping she can feel the cynicism rolling off of him in waves. “Cast a fucking spell, you’ll see I’m telling the truth,” she says, exasperated.

 

He casts a **Liar, liar, pants on fire** and is surprised when her tartan skirt doesn’t burst into flames. Huh. Interesting. He pauses for a moment, letting the information marinate in his mind. She genuinely believes they’d be a good couple. He bit the inside of his cheek, letting his fangs unsheathe the tiniest bit, as he turned the thought around in his mind of working with Bunce. _Working with_ her, as if this is some kind of business acquisition. It’d been what he originally intended, but now he at least knows she’s halfway trustworthy. She’d definitely be beneficial; if anybody knows Snow inside and out, it’s her. In fact, she probably knows him better than he knows himself, the inarticulate oaf. She also has remarkable emotional intelligence, something Baz lacks, and she’s proven herself to be trustworthy...

 

Fuck it. “So, we’re working together now?”

 

“Definitely,” she smiles.

 

**SIMON**

 

The next day, after a pep talk from Penny, Simon decides to talk to Baz. Revolutionary, he knows.

 

They’re doing homework near each other but not with each other, Baz at the desk and Simon on his bed. One window is open because Simon wouldn’t stop whining until Baz acquiesced and let him open one, but he refused to let him open both. The crisp smell of fall mixes with Baz’s posh soaps and it smells like Watford. It makes Simon’s heart happy. He could hear merwolves in the moat splashing about distantly.

 

“What’s your favourite color?” Simon asks.

 

Baz doesn’t look up from his textbook, but one of his eyebrows rises. “Why do you ask? Are you knitting me a bloody sweater?”

 

Simon fumes silently. Wanker. “We’ve been roommates for seven years and we barely know each other.”

 

“Tragic,” Baz mutters, flipping the page.

 

Simon’s statement wasn’t completely accurate, he realizes; Baz knows him well enough that he knows exactly how to get on his fucking nerves. “I like forest green.” There’s a pause. “I’m guessing yours is black.”

 

Baz scoffs. “Because I’m a super scary, blood-sucking vampire?” He writes for a few seconds, then his hand hovers for a second over his paper, and he refuses to look up. “It’s royal purple.”

 

“Royal purple? On a scale from one to ten, one being not vampiric at all and ten being black, royal purple is at least an eight,” Simon retorts.

 

Baz closes the textbook and stands, tucking it and his notebook under his arm and walking to the door. “I’m going to the library,” he announces, slamming the door behind him. Fuck.

 

**PENELOPE**

 

When Baz finds her in the Hexes and Jinxes section, he looks perplexed. “Bunce, what does it mean if he asks he what my favourite color is?”

 

Penelope puts down the book on curses she was skimming and turns to look at him. It means Simon is absolutely  _ abysmal _ at flirting. “It means he wants to talk to you, Baz. What’d you say?”

 

“What’d I say? I told him he was being ridiculous, and he accused me of being a vampire. Again,” he pouts, as if the answer is obvious.

 

Penny rolls her eyes and picks up a different book, this one on pixies and jinxes. “You can’t be an arsehole and expect for him to like you. Hold these for me,” she says, handing a stack of books she had previously laid on the shelf next to her to him.

 

Baz rolls his eyes and accepts the hefty stack of books. “But you have to admit, I’m great at being an arsehole.”

 

“Most would argue it’s your only talent,” Penny retorts, placing another book into his arms.

 

“False. I’m also good at snobbery and witty remarks,” Baz replies. Penny has to admit, this kind of back-and-forth banter was endearing. Being Baz’s friend, even temporarily, was strange.

 

“Well, there’s my first piece of advice: don’t be a twat all the time. It’s foolproof,” Penny says, grabbing one last book off the shelf and handing it to Baz. “Now come help me check these out, I want to see if the Roommate’s Anathema works against petty jinxes and hexes.”

 

—

 

As soon as Penny enters Simon and Baz’s room, she’s met with Simon wailing. “I chose the worst person to fall in love with, Pen,” he groans as loudly and irritatingly as possible, sitting upside-down in his bed. His head is in the middle of the bed and his lower half is propped against the headboard, leaning vertically against the wall. His arms are flopped over the side of the bed. Both windows are open, and Penny hopes that nobody out on the Lawn or the football pitch heard that.

 

“What’d he do this time?” she asks, feigning ignorance. She has to keep up the farce that she has no idea what’s happening between them, or else they’ll know she knows and it’ll be a  _ disaster _ .

 

“I tried to strike up a conversation by asking him what his favourite color is, and he got all pissy! I thought, oh, favourite color, that’s so innocent, nobody could  _ possibly  _ get mad over that. I was wrong!” he cries woefully, running a hand through his sandy hair.

 

Penny sits in the swivel chair that normally rests at the desk and rolls over to Simon. “That’s just Baz being Baz. Doesn’t mean he hates you.”

 

“Doesn’t it?”

 

Penny rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Si. Don’t give up hope. I think you can win him over. Just... keep talking to him,” she suggests, trying to be as vague as possible. He doesn’t need to try to win him over, he already had him wrapped around his damn pinky finger, but Simon doesn’t know that Penny knows that. Having willpower is much harder than Penny expected.

 

Simon sits up, all the blood making his face purple. “You know what I need to cheer myself up?”

 

“Sour cherry scones?” she guesses.

 

“Exactly.” He grins a lopsided grin and grabs her arm, leading her out of their room.

 

**BAZ**

 

The next time Simon and Baz talk, it’s when Simon walks in on him playing the violin.

 

He plays whenever he feels confused, and he lets the lucidity of mind that playing violin gives him solve all his problems. He has a lot of thoughts swarming in his mind right now. Being friends with Bunce is weird and admitting his feelings out loud to another living person is weird and acting on his feelings (or, at least, seriously entertaining the idea of doing so) is weird. Everything’s weird, and he needs the violin to help him think.

 

He’s playing one of his favourites— [ the Jupiter chorale, by Holst ](https://youtu.be/3Sw0e7DYGE4) . It was one of his first really challenging pieces he learned, and he has many fond memories of tearing his hair out and scribbling all over his sheet music and erasing it and scribbling over it with different, more aggressive scribbles. The notes and rhythms aren’t too difficult, just the technique; he’d spent ages perfecting his vibrato. He has it memorized now, and it’s his go-to warm-up or thinking music because he doesn’t think when he plays it anymore, it’s just natural, muscle memory, ingrained in his movements.

 

Which is probably why he doesn’t notice when Simon opens the door.

 

**SIMON**

 

Simon just stands in the doorway for a few minutes, keeping the door open just a crack, listening to him play. He’s heard bits and pieces of Baz playing from walking in on him through the years, but he’s never heard him play knowingly. Maybe it’s better like this, without him knowing, because he seems so carefree, relaxed. And he’s damn good, too; he’s heard his playing improve over the years, from mediocre-at-best in first year to professional, make-you-cry level now, in eighth year.

 

It’s absolutely beautiful. He’s absolutely beautiful.

 

He stands there, transfixed, mouth slightly agape, unable to move. He wishes he could play an instrument. He could just jump in, play an accompaniment, play the countermelody, one-up him like he always does. The stone walls of the turret their room occupies make the sound echo slightly, and it makes Simon’s spine melt. He’s never heard Baz so melodic, so relaxed, so awe-inspiring.

 

He leans against the slightly-open door a bit too hard, and he falls to the floor in an almost comically over-exaggerated manner and a loud  _ thump _ . Baz flinches and stops playing with one last discordant sound, whipping around to see who caught him.

 

Simon lies there on the floor, sure he’s red up to his ears, and makes unpleasant eye contact with Baz, who looks at him expectantly, like he’s waiting for an explanation. The words don’t come to Simon. They never do. “I—you’re—it’s—you’re really good at playing,” he stammers, his wrists and hip aching from where he hit the ground. “Like, really, really good.”

 

Baz’s nose twitches like he’s about to go for a sneer, but he pauses, and something miraculous happens: his expression softens, and he whispers, just barely audible, “Thanks.”

 

He pops open the violin case and Simon scrambles to his feet, dusting off his trousers and dropping his messenger bag on his bed. Baz slides the now-sheathed instrument under his bed—so  _ that’s _ where he keeps it!—and announces he’s going for a walk. Simon nods numbly and watches him leave after throwing on a scarf and peacoat.

 

He sits there on his bed for a while, playing the music over and over in his head. It sounded kind of familiar, like maybe he’d heard him playing it before, but he’d never heard it like that. It was absolutely captivating, like a siren’s song, freezing his feet in place no matter how badly he wanted to turn tail and run before he was caught. Simon wondered if music could constitute as magic, despite the lack of words.

  
He wants to hear Baz play again. And again. And again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be updating weekly-ish (emphasis on the ish), so here's the second chapter, a little earlier than planned!

**SIMON**

 

Simon is nudged awake by something prodding at his shoulder. In a sleepy haze, he mumbles, “Sod off, Baz,” and rolls over in bed, burying his face in his pillow. How early is it? It’s Saturday, he shouldn’t be awake before noon.

 

“Wake up, Simon,” an amused voice that is definitely  _ not _ Baz says.

 

“Sir!” Simon cries, immediately recognizing the voice and sitting up straight. The Mage was gently nudging his shoulder to wake him up. _ Stupid, stupid, stupid. _ “I’m sorry, sir, I thought—”

 

He notices Baz quietly snickering in the bed next to him, lounging in his satin pyjamas and his lower half covered in far too many blankets, looking for all the world like the princess he loves to act like he is. Fucking prick.

 

“It’s alright, Simon. I apologize for having to wake you two up so early on the weekend,” the Mage starts, and Simon rubs his eyes. Early sunlight filters through the heavy curtains and a crisp fall breeze drifts easily into the room, highlighting flying dust motes like dying embers. “But I’m afraid I have a mission for you.”

 

“Both of us?” Baz asks, and Simon swears he can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice.

 

“Yes. There are numpties over in Oxford being far more aggressive than normal, and we fear it’s the Humdrum’s doing.” The Mage strolls over to the window, hands folded behind his back. His olive green cape shifts lightly around his shoulders, a product of the wind.

 

Simon yawns, still half-asleep. More than that, maybe three-quarters asleep. “So you’re sending us on... a field trip? To kill some numpties?”

 

The Mage laughs mirthlessly. “Yes. You’re our best weapon against the Humdrum, and if it  _ is _ his doing, it’s for the best if we’re prepared. Additionally, you’ve been coming along well with your studies, and I want to see how well you can do alone, against real obstacles. I have every reason to believe you can do this, Simon.” The praise makes Simon glow in response.

 

“So I’m the bodyguard?” Baz interjects, his voice laden with sarcasm.

 

“In a way. We want to show the Old Families—the house of Pitch included—that we’re allies. This is the Coven offering a hand of friendship, to show that we trust them. An olive branch, if you will. We trust them so much, in fact, we’ll leave our biggest advantage in the hands of the heir Pitch.” The way the Mage talks is so mechanical, purely political.

 

Simon’s stomach flips in his abdomen. He kind of wishes he’d treat him like an equal, like he’s capable of individual thought, instead of just a chess piece in this convoluted game.  _ Biggest advantage.  _ “I don’t quite like the way you’re talking about me as if I’m incapable of taking care of myself,” he says. “Sir,” he tacks on.

 

The Mage turns to him finally, kind chestnut eyes regarding him with warmth. It’s odd how easily the Mage goes from emotionless to emotional, like flipping a light switch. “Simon, wouldn’t you agree it’s safer to take a backup? Especially backup as powerful as Basilton. You’re still working on controlling your magic.”

 

Simon shifts in bed. The concept of backup is fine, just not  _ Baz _ . He suspects Baz feels the same way, judging by the way his upper lip raises in a sneer. “Yes, sir,” Simon agrees reluctantly.

 

“Splendid. I’ve left the train tickets and details on your desk. It departs at ten-thirty. I expected you’d like some time to prepare.” The Mage claps his hands together and makes for the door. “Be careful out there, and good luck.” He closes the door quietly behind him and leaves Simon and Baz in silence. He hears birds and snow-devils chirping outside the window.

 

“Truce?” Simon blurts without thinking.

 

“... _ Truce _ ?” Baz echos incredulously, tilting his head.

 

“Truce. For the duration of this day trip, we won’t try to kill each other. It would kinda get in the way, I think,” Simon explains as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He rubs his eyes again, trying to scrape away the last remnants of sleep. If he’s going to be fighting numpties (numpt _ ies _ , plural) today, he needs to be at the top of his game.

 

Baz barks out a laugh. “True. Alright then, Snow, truce.” Simon thrusts his hand out into the space between their beds, and his eyes met Baz’s. Baz rolls his eyes before grabbing his hand and shaking it firmly. Are his hands always that cold? He stands, stretching his arms above his head and letting his shirt ride up (which Simon  _ definitely _ doesn’t notice) before walking to his wardrobe. “I’ll go down to the hall and bring some breakfast up here while you get ready, you lazy git. You’re practically still asleep.”

 

Simon still hasn’t been able to drag himself out of bed by the time Baz comes out of the bathroom fully dressed. His bed is just too comfy and warm, and he’s too preoccupied thinking about how cold his hand was. Baz notices this by the time he bends down to tie his boots, and he kicks him lightly in the shin but just hard enough to inflict pain. “Look alive, Chosen One, we have numpties to slay.”

 

**BAZ**

 

When Baz finally makes it to the dining hall, he notices Penny in line for food and sidles next to her. “Bunce.”

 

“Pitch,” she greets, a conspiratorial grin quirking at the corner of her lip.

 

“The Mage is sending me and Simon on a day trip to Oxford to kill some rogue numpties,” he mumbles, hoping nobody else can hear over the hustle and bustle of breakfast. “He’s up in our room right now, getting ready.”

 

“The Mage sent you and Simon, two teenagers, to kill numpties?” Penny queries, moving forward with the line. “That’s highly unprofessional. Also, ridiculously dangerous. He doesn’t send kids on day trips very often.”

 

Baz shrugs. “He said he wants to show allegiance between him and the Old Families. Which is a shite idea, but whatever.”

 

Penny waggles her eyebrows up at him. “It’s a perfect opportunity,” she suggests with a sing-song voice.

 

Baz scoffs and takes an extra scone off of Cook Pritchard’s tray. She looks at him knowingly. “ _ Perfect opportunity, _ ” he mocks, deciding to grab yet another scone—he knows Snow is practically fueled by sour cherry scones. Cook Pritchard shoots him a less approving look, and he sheepishly smiles at her for a split second. “Perfect opportunity for  _ what _ ? Numpties don’t exactly give off the most romantic ambiance.”   


 

Penny giggled. “Picture that! You kiss him passionately under the moonlight as a numpty takes your heads off!”

 

Baz fed well last night after the violin shenanigans, so he’s not surprised when he feels blood rush to his cheeks. “Will you mind your volume?” he hisses, eyes darting around to see if anyone noticed. Thankfully, everyone looks preoccupied with their breakfast. (Honestly, Baz could be doing a fucking tap routine on a table in a glittery vest and nobody would notice. Nothing gets between teenagers and their food, especially when the food is as good as it is at Watford.)

 

Penny rolls her eyes, handing him a cup of orange juice, presumably for Snow. “Mind if I ask a personal question?”

 

“Can’t get much more personal than we already have.”

 

“Are you gay? Like, completely?”

 

The question throws him completely off guard, and he can’t help but laugh. Penelope Bunce and her damned curiosity. He snorts and answers. “Yes, Bunce.  _ Completely _ . Gay. Homosexual. Flaming. Batting for the other team. You must be devastated that your chances with me are ruined,” he teases. It’s funny how natural banter with Penelope is; Snow got lucky with this one.

 

Penny sticks out her tongue. “Gross.” She grabs some silverware. “Y’know, I had no idea you were gay.”

 

“I didn’t exactly hide it.” They’re at the end of the line.

 

“You didn’t exactly make it obvious, either,” she huffs.

 

“I think everyone would be worried for my sanity if I suddenly started wearing rainbows and pride flags all the time.” He turned to walk away. “Not all gay men look like one-man pride parades, you know.”

 

She gets flustered and tugs on his sleeve to stop him from leaving. “Of course I know! It was just... surprising. After the thing with Agatha.”

 

Ah. So  _ that’s _ where this conversation’s heading. He sighs. “That ‘thing with Agatha’ wasn’t a thing. We just both happened to be in the forest at the same time, and we saw each other, so we talked a little, and I saw Simon coming, and I wanted to piss him off, so I grabbed her hands to make it look like we were having a tryst or some shit,” he rambles. “We didn’t do anything. Even if I were into women, Wellbelove isn’t even my type.”

 

Penny laughs at that, helping diffuse the tense vibe. “What  _ is _ your type? Strapping young men, shorter than you, with brownish-blonde hair and freckles? Hates you?”

 

Baz rolls his eyes. “Speaking of, I’m sure he’s getting hungry. We’ll see you when we get back, whenever that will be.  _ If  _ we get back,” he adds.

 

Penny nods, then turns more serious. “Be careful, alright? I don’t want either of you to pull some stupid shite and die.”

 

Baz nods sagely in response, echoing her movement. He begins the walk back to Mummers House with a plate full of food.

 

**SIMON**

 

Baz knocks once and opens the door, holding a plentiful amount of food. Including sour cherry scones, Simon’s favourite. “Thank Merlin, I’m starving,” he grins, swiping one off the top and biting into it hungrily. Just as good as always, if a bit colder.

 

“You’re welcome,” Baz says pointedly, placing the plate on Simon’s bed, grabbing a croissant, and taking a book off his bookshelf. He sits at the desk and flips through it, obviously trying to find a specific page as Simon hums a tune he can’t get out of his head.

 

Simon peers over his shoulder. “Whatcha doin’?” he asks through the pastry in his mouth.

 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, cretin,” Baz grumbles. “I’m looking for information on numpties. We still have another half hour before we leave for the train station, so I figured we’d better be as prepared as possible.” He finally finds the page and points to it, scooting over so Simon can see. “Ah! There it is. Numpties. Nasty buggers, aren’t they?”

 

Simon reads the entry on numpties. He’s heard of them and seen a few in person, but he’s never fought one.  _ Numpties, while generally apathetic to humans, can be highly dangerous if provoked. They’re known for their boulder-like appearance when dormant and are constantly cold. Their main objective is to achieve warmth. Their weapon of choice is either a bare fist or a club, and they reside mainly under bridges.  _ “Seems like it.”

 

Baz runs a hand through his hair. “Oxford. According to the note the Mage left, the numpties have a little hovel off the Thames and are terrorizing the locals.”

 

“Hm. Sound like the Humdrum to you?”

 

“Maybe. Can’t say.” Baz skewers a sausage with a fork and casts a  **Some like it hot** before popping it in his mouth. “Could’ve just been some really angry mage with an enemy in town.”

 

“Let’s get going, then,” Simon says, shrugging on a coat and a scarf. “We have a twenty-minute walk to the station and an hour-long train ride.”

 

—

 

The walk and train ride is silent. Awkwardly so. They sit with more than enough space between them, careful not to make contact. Simon hates this dance they always do, so scared to cross whatever invisible lines they’ve drawn, not just physically but moreso emotionally. Now that he knows about his own feelings for Baz, he’s far more worried about how he acts around him. Is it weird to ask Baz for help on Greek homework? Is it weird to ask Baz to play the violin again? Is it weird to ask Baz what his favourite color is? (Apparently so.) (Twat.)

 

They exit the train together and delve into the heart of Oxford. Winter has already taken it in its cold grasp; all the trees are bare, and they sigh mournfully in the wind. Thankfully, Watford still has plenty of red-leafed trees. Britain is always so grey: overcast skies, bare trees, muddled stone buildings... Simon wonders if America’s like that, too. Penny says it’s so colourful, but he doesn’t know if he quite believes her.

 

Simon is yanked out of his reverie by a literal yank on the sleeve of his jacket. “Come on, Snow, or you’ll get lost in this crowd,” Baz says just loud enough for him to hear. Simon follows him, and mentally remarks that his eyes are the same color as the sky right now.

 

He doesn’t notice the tight grip on his sleeve. Really, he doesn’t. And he especially doesn’t notice how cold Baz’s hands are for the second time that day.

 

Once they’re out of the train station, the crowd thins dramatically and Baz lets go of his forearm. “Fucking mental,” he mutters, taking the note the Mage left out of his pocket and consulting it. “This way.” He starts walking, and Simon follows.

 

**BAZ**

 

Well, they certainly found the numpties’ lair. 

 

It’s disgusting and dripping and wet. The dirty Thames water pools on the ground, creating an undesirable muddy puddle he and Simon are forced to stand in up to their ankles. He’s never wearing these boots again, no matter how much he  **Spick and span** s them. It smells like mould and decay, and flies are buzzing lazily in the air.

 

Baz retrieves his wand and Simon pulls out his sword, ready to battle. A group of about ten numpties stare down at them menacingly, surrounding them until they’re pressed back-to-back. “Why are you terrorizing the people here?” Simon yells, slowly and deliberately so they can understand him. (Numpties aren’t known for their comprehension skills.)

 

“Chosen One,” one grumbles, swinging a massive fist at him. Simon yelps and just barely ducks, the numpty’s arm making a sickening  _ whoosh _ sound behind Baz’s head.

 

“Careful, Simon,” Baz growls.

 

“I—” he starts, and another numpty attacks. It moves to bring a club down on Simon’s head, and he quickly slices it in half with his sword. As much as Baz loves to give him shit for it, he’s actually very skilled with his blade. “Stop fighting, we just want to talk,” he whines. Baz can feel his magic building up in the air, accumulating like carbon monoxide. If they aren’t careful, he’s going to go off soon, and who knows what’ll happen then.

 

“Bring back Chosen, get warm,” yet another groans, this time attacking Baz. He casts a  **Get off!** and manages to avoid the hit by the skin of his teeth.

 

“Snow, I think you’re being bonety hunted,” Baz hisses over his shoulder. He could feel Simon moving behind him, and he tries to keep himself from worrying too much. The numpties move ever closer, and Baz grunts, making a split-second decision. “Crowley, we don’t have time for pacifism,” he says, and prepares to cast a spell.

 

“Green,” a numpty bellows.

 

“ **Calm down!** ” Simon screams, and the numpties stop advancing as quickly. “I don’t think we can take on this many, B—” he starts, and his luck finally runs out.

 

A numpty’s huge fist easily sweeps Simon across the room, which is really just a cave-slash-hole just off the river bank, as if he were made of paper. He hits the wall hard, his body going completely limp, and Baz grits his teeth. No more Mr. Nice Vampire.

 

“ **Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame!** ” Baz casts, putting as much magickal energy as he can summon into the words. A blast of light springs forth from his wand and impales the chests of three numpties. Black sluggish liquid pours out like a water fountain with shite water pressure, the ground shaking as they fall to their knees, dead. Three down, seven to go. They do look rather like boulders once they’re dead, don’t they? Boulders covered in a gross black goo.

 

“Baz!” he hears behind him, and the fear in Simon’s voice makes his heart jump into his throat.

 

He turns around, and his heart stops altogether when he sees him crushed in the huge fist of the biggest numpty. “Warm,” the numpty says, shaking Simon in his grasp.

 

Simon looks about a second from death, blood dripping down his face, and Baz feels rage fill his veins. “Baz! Grab my hand!” he cries, reaching out just far enough that Baz can reach him if he stands on his tiptoes. He does so without hesitation.

 

**SIMON**

 

Simon doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Something in his gut says to lend Baz his magic. He doesn’t even know if that’s possible, but now they’re holding hands, just barely, and at least if he dies, he’ll die holding Baz Pitch’s hand. How poetic.

 

He pushes the smallest amount.

 

**BAZ**

 

They grasp hands, and it’s like floodgates have been opened.

 

Pure euphoria floods his senses. His brain is short-circuiting, and he thinks he fires off a spell, but he couldn’t tell you which one. It’s like he’s floating. Too many sensations, yet not enough sensations, he needs more, more,  _ more _ . His eyes flutter open and shut uncontrollably. He thinks he might be glowing. He sure feels like he’s glowing. He holds Simon’s hand so tight, he thinks he might be crushing it with his vampire strength.

 

“ **Mine!** ” Baz roars. The numpty drops Simon obediently, and Baz pulls him forward so he falls into his arms. His body is absolutely thrumming with power, so much so that he barely even noticed how Simon’s body sagged nauseatingly against his. Baz points his wand with one hand while holding Simon close to his chest with the other. He knows he’s being selfish, that he shouldn’t be taking advantage of a half-dead Simon like this, holding him close while he has no say in the matter, but he needs it. He needs the power. He needs the proximity. He needs for him to be safe. He needs  _ Simon. _

 

Simon’s arms wrap snugly around Baz, and his heart stops again.

 

**SIMON**

 

Simon hears Baz cast spells over his shoulder vaguely, as if he were underwater. His head feels full of cotton. When the numpty picked him up, it did something funny to his ankle, and now he could feel a dull throbbing pain there. And maybe a concussion. He can feel warmth flowing down his temple to his cheek to his jaw to Baz’s once-white shirt. (Oops.)

 

He feels so safe. He’s surrounded by stupid, vicious numpties, but he feels so  _ safe  _ here.

 

**BAZ**

 

Baz fires off damn near every offensive spell he knows. He can do it now, no limitations. Normally he needs at least a few seconds to recharge, but somehow Simon is fueling him, pouring an infinite supply of gasoline onto an ever-growing conflagration. More numpties fall to the ground, but he barely feels it rumble beneath his feet. He feels nothing except for Simon’s ragged breathing and slow heartbeat against his chest.

 

**SIMON**

 

Baz’s skin is so cold where it presses against his own flushed skin.

 

When Baz stills and he doesn’t hear numpties groaning anymore, Simon dares to speak. “What just happened?” he mumbles into the crook of his neck.

 

“We can talk about it when we get home,” Baz replies, voice rough.

 

Home.

 

“Can you walk?”

 

Simon tries to lower his weight onto his right ankle, and it buckles under him with a sharp jab of pain. He hisses a breath and shakes his head no, burying his face deeper in Baz’s shirt. His head feels fuzzy. He’s exhausted. He’s sopping wet with mud. He just wants to go home.

 

**BAZ**

 

The last numpty turns to stone.

 

Simon’s power starts to eke out of Baz, dripping from his fingertips like blood. “Green,” huh? Must’ve just been some bonety hunters hired by a goblin to kill Simon. Those goblins are awfully persistent.

 

Baz is still humming, drunk and incoherent off Simon’s power (“completely sozzled” as Aunt Fiona would say), so he sighs and does something he definitely wouldn’t do if he were in his right mind: picks Simon Snow up bridal-style, taking special care with his right leg. Thankfully, they didn’t have to walk too far from the train station.

 

The walk to the station helps Baz organize his thoughts. (The insanely warm, clingy, possibly-unconscious-and-or-concussed Snow resting on his torso doesn’t help.) Both he and Snow are covered in dirt, especially their trousers and shoes. Shame. Simon’s hair is tangled and matted with dirt, and his cheek and forehead have a few rather nasty scrapes that’re probably infected. Blood trickles down his cheek and Baz fights to resist the temptation to just lean down and lick it off. (Gross.)

 

They stumble onto a train after Baz  **Clean as a whistle** s them both as to avoid suspicion. He could cast a  **Time flies** or  **Hurry up** on the train, but he decides to let himself be selfish for the second time that day.

 

Simon is sleeping next to him and he suddenly falls ragdoll against Baz’s shoulder, and his heart catches in his throat. He’s so impossibly warm and alive, absolutely thrumming with life energy even when concussed and nearly dead. Exhaustion seeps into Baz’s bones, the once-overwhelming feeling of Snow’s magic dissipating into thin air and thick lethargy replacing it. He barely manages to stay awake, but Simon doesn’t even try, and he can’t blame him. In his sleep, Simon wraps his arm around Baz’s, his hand resting on his forearm. He notices that Simon’s not wearing the cross he used to wear. Maybe it had to do with his breakup with Agatha. (Or, as the lone optimistic cell in his body thinks, he stopped wearing it because he doesn’t want to repel Baz anymore. Unlikely.) He has to resist the urge to wrap his arm around him, to kiss his temple, to ruffle his hair, and it’s harder than any hunger he’s ever felt.

 

**SIMON**

 

Simon isn’t sleeping. 

 

He pretends he is so Baz doesn’t catch on. But he isn’t.

 

He falls asleep only  _ after _ curling up as close to Baz as he can while maintaining plausible deniability. He doesn’t have any nightmares. He feels vaguely guilty, but his head is still vague and blurry, and his ankle still hurts very bad, and all he can smell is Baz’s stupidly expensive soap that smells like cedar and bergamot according to Penny (what even  _ is _ bergamot?), and it’s hard to stop concussed Simon from cuddling up with his arch nemesis apparently. Who knew?

 

**BAZ**

 

They finally got back to Watford at around dinnertime, and Baz carries him all the way to the infirmary. They certainly garner looks from the rest of the student body, but he couldn’t care less. Simon’s clutching his shirt so hard in his sleep, he can’t bring himself to pry him off.

 

Bunce runs from the crowd to meet them about halfway there, and she gasps. “What did I say about not doing stupid shite?” she cries, smacking Baz upside the head and making his sensitive ears ring. “If he’s dead, I’m going to kill you  _ so hard _ ,” she fumes.

 

“He’s not dead, just probably a little concussed with a bad ankle.”

 

“Simon may be the worst Chosen One, but you’re the worst  _ bodyguard _ to the Chosen One,” she grumbles, standing on her tiptoes to get a peek of his face. She presses a hand to his bloodied cheek and whispers, “ **As good as new,** ” and the flesh reverts back to the tanned and freckled colour it normally is. Baz would’ve cast a healing spell earlier, but after the magic sharing and numpty-killing and carrying him all the way to the station, he was far too exhausted to use that much magic and stay conscious. “Go on, we haven’t got all day! Take him to the nurse before I  _ send  _ you to the nurse!”

 

—

 

Turns out Simon has not only a mild concussion, but also a sprained ankle. Even with magic helping him, he’s bedridden for a week, much to his chagrin. Baz and Penny take shifts caring for him, but Simon seems to prefer Penny much more.

 

Penny’s gentle, pressing her oversized ring to his ankle or his back or wherever he says it hurts and murmuring “ **Early to bed and early to rise!** ” over and over. She’s maybe a little over-doting, caring to every whim Simon has; she brings him food from the dining hall, brings him his homework, goes over the day’s lessons with him. By the time Baz gets back from his classes in the afternoon, the room smells strongly of her magic—cinnamon and brownies. He hates the smell of cinnamon.

 

Baz, on the other hand, definitely has more of a “tough love” approach. In fact, that’s the spell he uses; the nurse said to use something like  **Get well soon!,** but Baz has memories behind  **Tough love.** (Also, he’s a sadist. Especially when it comes to Snow.)

 

“Merlin, Morgan, and Methuselah, Baz! That fucking hurts!” Simon cries, clutching at his leg as Baz leans over it. “You’re making it  _ worse! _ ”

 

Baz straightens and shrugs, tucking his wand back into his pocket. “It worked on me as a kid when I broke my elbow. And I didn’t whinge nearly half as much as you are.”

 

Simon looks up at him, eyes crinkled at the corners. “Hah! When did  _ you _ break your elbow? I didn’t think you ever went outside as a kid.”

 

Baz rolls his eyes, but looks back on the memory fondly. “It happened when I was seven. One of my cousins—absolute demons, I tell you—challenged me to see who could climb higher in the tree in our backyard. She won.” It was an absolutely beautiful summer day back in Hampshire. Memories of drinking pink lemonade, playing games with his younger cousins, and scaring little Mordelia with fangs he could barely control make him smile wistfully.

 

“I don’t think I can imagine a seven-year-old Baz climbing a tree, much less falling out of it and breaking his arm,” Simon mutters, sitting up higher in his bed. “It’s hard to imagine you being anything but paranoid and stubborn all the time.”

 

“I tried to cast  **Light as a feather** but I wasn’t strong enough to stop the fall completely,” he admits bashfully, running a hand through his hair nervously. Talking to Simon is always nerve wracking for some reason. (He knows the reason.)

 

That makes Simon laugh out loud, a light, airy laugh that makes Baz’s chest tighten. “Ridiculous. I don’t believe it.”

 

Baz rolls his eyes and rucks up his shirt sleeve. “Look,” he says, and extends his arm. Since he broke his elbow pretty badly, he’s double jointed, and his forearm extends far past where it should.

 

Simon recoils and winces. “Eugh, that’s disgusting!” he cries, shielding his eyes, then scoots closer despite the stack of pillows his ankle rests on. “That’s so gross. Do it again.”

 

Baz will never admit it, but his favorite afternoons are when it’s all three of them—Simon, Penny, and Baz. He would be splayed out on his bed, arguing with Simon and reading a book; Penny would be at the desk, doing homework as usual and occasionally entering their arguments; and Simon would be sat in his bed with his ankle propped up on all the pillows in the room and one from Penny’s, bored out of his mind and thankful for the company. They argue about anything and everything, from the Mage’s corruption to cats versus dogs. The stupid ones are the ones that get the most heated.

 

“Dogs are just more fun,” Simon interjects, throwing his red ball he’s had since first year at Baz. (He knows Baz hates it, Baz knows he knows Baz hates it, but they’ve stopped caring.) (They’ve run out of things to do—they stopped playing chess, checkers, and tic tac toe after Baz beat him every time.)

 

Baz catches it with ease and throws it at the wall, making it bounce directly into Simon’s hands. “Wrong. Cats are much more self-sufficient. You don’t have to do the boring stuff, like giving it a bath or taking it out every day.”

 

Simon scoffs. “Giving a dog a bath is the fun part! Especially in the summer. Back me up, Pen?” He chucks it at the ceiling, and it bounces in the complete opposite direction. Baz glares at him and stands reluctantly, making a big show of walking over and retrieving the ball. He wanted to ask Simon about whatever childhood dog he’d had, but he got the vibe that Simon didn’t like talking about his family (or lack thereof.)

 

“I’m allergic to dogs, so I’m gonna have to go with Baz on this one,” Penny announces, swirling around in the swivel chair and adjusting herself so she’s sitting backwards with her chin resting on the back.

 

Simon gasps and Baz grins a cockeyed grin. “Traitor!” Simon pouts, and Baz can’t help but indulge himself. He stares openly at Simon. He lets himself look at him, drink in that carefree expression, knowing that he caused it. Being friends with Simon and Penny has been an experience he didn’t know would make his heart feel so  _ full _ . Dev and Niall were great friends, but they never talked about whether or not dogs were better than cats, or waffles versus pancakes, or  _ Star Wars _ versus  _ Star Trek _ . (Snow likes dogs,  _ Star Wars, _ and pancakes. He’s wrong on all accounts.)

 

Penny clears her throat. “Baz?” He blinks a few times and shifts his gaze to look at her, wiping the stupid smile he didn’t know he had on his face off. She raises her eyebrows and shoots him a knowing look, and he sneers. She puckers her lips at him, making a kissing motion, and he rolls his eyes. Thankfully, Simon was too busy trying to juggle with the ball and a roll of gauze the nurse left on his nightstand. Idiot. Baz really knows how to choose ‘em.

 

—

 

The next day, Baz sees Penny on his way to Mummers House after classes. She stops him and offers him a stack of paper, whispering in his ear, “I can’t help Simon with his homework today, so you’re going to.”

 

“Why can’t you?” Baz asks, suspicious.

 

“Something came up. I’m awfully busy lately.” She winks.

 

He hates that wink and the realization that washes over him. He’s not sure if he wants to punch her or hug her. “...Thanks,” he settles on, nodding curtly and walking past her. 

 

**SIMON**

 

It’s so dull without Baz and Penny.

 

Just sitting in his room twenty-four seven. Nothing to do. There’s some old musty books to read, but he’s already read most of them, and he’d have to get up to get them anyway. He’s had a lot of time to think about what happened in Oxford.

 

He doesn’t remember very much (thanks, concussion), but he does remember giving Baz his magic. Just opening up to him, letting him take it. It felt like finally conceding in a two-man game of tug-of-war, falling into him and letting him tug and tug and tug. He was seconds from going off, too, so thankfully Baz knew what to do. Then, after... He cast  **Mine!** and held Simon so tightly. That damned hug haunts his fucking dreams. (Literally. He dreams about it. A lot.) (Sometimes, he’s glad that Baz is always gone by the time he wakes up.)

 

It feels wrong, like an invasion of privacy, to think about it how he was. Simon knows Baz doesn’t have feelings for him like he does. He knows. It’s not an issue.

 

So why can’t he get it out of his head?

 

Baz was stronger than he imagined (not that he imagined), holding him so tightly he was having trouble breathing. He was simultaneously unaware and hyper-aware of his bodily sensations, magic flowing through each and every square centimetre of skin that touched. He felt so safe.

 

That feeling of safety is what really bothers Simon. He was surrounded by numpties that almost killed him, that were  _ in the process _ of killing him, and yet he felt as safe in Baz’s arms as he does now in his bed at Watford. His heart yearns for that feeling of safety and security again.

 

(Not to mention how he carried him and the train ride.) (Oh Merlin, don’t even get him  _ started.  _ He could talk about it forever. It’s on his ever-expanding Don’t Think list, but he thinks about it anyway. He’s never had great self control around Baz.)

 

He perks up as he hears the door open, expecting to see Penny’s fuschia mane of hair or Baz’s dark silhouette. Instead, he’s greeted by Agatha’s weeping willow eyes. “A—Agatha? How’d you get in here?” As far as he’s aware, the only girl allowed into Mummers was Penny.

 

“The nurse let me in,” she explains with her quiet, lilting voice. She always sounds like she’s reading poetry, even if she were reading the back of a cereal box. “I wanted to talk to you. It’s been a while.”

 

“It has.”

 

Silence.

 

To be completely honest, Agatha’s the last person Simon wants to see right now. The breakup didn’t exactly leave them on good terms.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“Good. Penny and Baz have been taking good care of me. Well, Baz not so much, but he’s not trying to kill me, so it’s progress, I guess.”

 

“I didn’t realize you and Baz were so close now,” she whispers. He can’t tell if she’s whispering on purpose or if she’s so soft-spoken naturally. He’s never able to tell with Agatha.

 

Simon shrugs. He bites back the urge to tell her that they really aren’t that close, and then he sees her gaze land on the cross necklace lying on his nightstand instead of around his neck. (He took it off when he realized his feelings for him, in case he really is a vampire.) “When someone saves your life, you tend to get pretty close,” he settles on.

 

She finally makes eye contact with him, and he remembers why he liked her. She’s perfect in every sense. Maybe too perfect. “You need to stop hanging around him, Simon. He’s a  _ vampire _ .”

 

“That didn’t stop you, did it?” he mumbles without thinking. He never thinks.

 

She huffs and storms out of the room just as quietly as she came in. He can’t bring himself to call after her.

 

Before the door can even close behind her, Baz enters with a hand full of papers and a face full of confusion. “How did Agatha—”

 

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Simon sighs, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation.

 

Baz  _ hmph _ s, but thankfully, he drops it. “Here’s your homework. Penny’s busy today, so she told me to tutor you for now,” Baz says with an undetectable hint of emotion, dropping the stack of paper on Simon’s lap. He pulls up a chair to Simon’s bed and takes out one of his notebooks and pencils for both of them. He’s started talking again, but Simon simply watches. Are they really that close?

 

It brings back fond memories of when he first met Penny and he asked if they were friends.  _ “I’m helping you with your lesson, aren’t I?” _

 

“Focus, Snow,” Baz warns, pointing the end of his pencil at a Greek conjugation table.

 

“Are we friends?” he says without thinking. Again. (He really needs to work on that.)

 

Baz scoffs and scribbles in one of the cells. “You’re insufferable.”

 

“I’m not hearing a  _ no _ ,” Simon grins, leaning forward on his elbows. Infuriating Baz was one of his favorite pastimes; normally it’s Baz irritating Simon, so it’s especially gratifying when it’s the other way around.

 

“Yes, you are. This is me, saying no:  _ no _ . Now can we do the sodding Greek homework?”

 

**BAZ**

 

One day, Simon Snow is going to kill him.


	3. Chapter 3

**SIMON**

 

Once he heals, he half expects Baz to stop talking to him. To go back to hating him from afar like he has for the past seven years. He wouldn’t blame him if he did.

 

He doesn’t.

 

**BAZ**

 

Baz can’t help it, he _has_ to chase that feeling again. The overwhelming power, the overwhelming emptiness, the overwhelming fullness… It was intoxicating. He needed it again. (He’s fully aware of how much he sounds like a crack addict. Simon Snow tends to have that effect on him.)

 

Thankfully, Simon’s just as eager, and they decide to test it again out on the Great Lawn. Penny accompanies them as well as Agatha, surprisingly. (Baz can’t bring himself to continue his fake flirting with Agatha, as much as he loves how angry it makes Simon. It makes him feel guilty, knowing that he may have influenced their breakup.) (Not to mention how Agatha isn’t the one he likes in the relationship.)

 

Baz never sits on the Great Lawn, even for the welcome-back picnic. He always ends up standing with Dev and Niall, talking about whatever they did over the summer. Now he wonders why he doesn’t; Penny has spelled Simon’s coat into a blanket and they’re lounging on the soft grass in the sunny afternoon, and it’s beautiful. Everything feels so _normal._ Baz is still adjusting to… _this._ Being friends with Simon Snow and Penelope Bunce.

 

He notices Agatha pointedly sitting as far away as possible from him, obviously still pissed. Whatever. Let her be pissed. Doesn’t make him lose any sleep.

 

“I wanna go first,” says Penny, adjusting her skirt so she can face Simon.

 

“O—Okay,” he stammers, wiping sweaty palms on his trousers. “Just, I’ve only ever done this once, so tell me if you want me to stop.”

 

Penny nods enthusiastically. “Magic me up.”

 

Simon grabs her hand, then closes his eyes. A tense second passes. Suddenly, Penny yelps as if she pressed her bare hand on a hot stove. “Nicks and Slick, Simon! Fuck!” she cries, pulling her hand away immediately.

 

Baz’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “It shouldn’t hurt, Bunce,” he says informatively.

 

“Well it _fucking does_ , Baz! Holy fucking _shit_ , Si, I think my arm’s about to bloody fall off,” she whines, grasping at her forearm through her jacket. “Did you set me on fire _from the inside_?”

 

“I’m _so sorry,_ ” Simon repeats over and over again, rubbing her arm where she’s clawing desperately. “I—I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know it would—”

 

“Simon, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. Try it with Baz again, maybe that first time was just a fluke,” she reassures him, moving his hand off her arm and squeezing it gently.

 

Simon wipes his eyes—was he seriously about to cry over accidentally hurting Penny?—and turns to Baz. He grabs both of his hands without hesitation, which makes Baz flinch unexpectedly. He wasn’t surprised that he grabbed Penny’s hand—they’re practically brother and sister at this point—but he hadn’t expected it for himself, and especially not both hands. His fingers are shorter than Baz’s, and his hands are notably sweatier. He’s warm and buzzing with nervous energy. This time, he hesitates. “Well, go on then, Snow. I haven’t got all day,” Baz begins, but then Simon turns the tap on and he can’t suppress the gasp that leaves his mouth.

 

He feels so _full_ . Like he’s complete. He’s open, and he’s full of energy, and everything else around them melts away so quickly. Penny’s gone, as is Wellbelove, as is the Lawn and the blanket that used to be Simon’s jacket and the far-off bleating of goats and the light breeze that tickles his skin and the smell of fresh-cut grass. All that’s left is Simon and Baz, Baz and Simon, and somehow it feels even better than the first time. (Maybe it’s because there’s no numpties immediately threatening their lives, or maybe it’s cause Simon’s in more control now that he’s not about to go off.) It feels like their hands, their minds, their souls, their magics are melded together, together, _together_. They’re one being.

 

 _Cast something_. Baz isn’t sure if he thinks it or if Simon thinks it, but he does.

 

“ **Any way the wind blows,** ” he whispers, feeling the power consume him like a forest fire. They’ve snapped back to reality, and Baz opens eyes he didn’t realize were closed. All around them, the trees begin to blow in the wind, more and more. The few leaves that remain by mid-November fly off, surrounding them in a tornado just wide enough to fit all four of them. The wind grows stronger and stronger, and he sees out of the corner of his eye Agatha trying to keep her skirt down and Penny trying to keep her glasses on, an amazed smile growing on her face and a frown growing on Agatha’s.

 

The gusts of wind began ruffling Simon’s hair, lifting the bronze curls off his forehead and plastering them down over and over again. Baz’s hair flies around too, but he’s too captivated by what he sees before him to notice. Simon’s eyes were flickering between half-opened and closed, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, eyebrows furrowed, and his teeth worrying at his bottom lip, making them turn a pleasant shade of red. Sweat’s accumulating on his forehead, and Baz feels himself start to shake with the effort of the spell.

 

Theoretically, this spell isn’t even _capable_ of this magnitude of wind. It’s just a simple spell that creates a light breeze for a few seconds, used during the summer to cool off or to make wind chimes go off. Works especially well if the user is a Queen fan. Right now, though, small trees are getting ripped out of the ground, bringing up soil and root systems too.

 

“Stop!” cries Agatha, and Simon’s eyes snap open and the faucet shuts off, the tornado dying immediately around them. The carnage is apparent. Patches of grass were torn up all around them, leaving a perfect circle around them where they sit. Hundreds of dead leaves are littered around the circumference of the circle as well. A few trees lay defeated on the ground a few meters away.

 

Simon’s hair is ridiculously messy and his scarf has been almost completely undone. Baz is sure he looks equally undone, and he jerks his head to the side to get the hair off his face.

 

“Woah,” Simon utters, lively blue eyes meeting Baz’s for the first time since they began sharing power.

 

“That’s all you can say? _Woah_ ?” Baz mocks, then giggles. “Shit, Snow, that was _bloody amazing!_ ”

 

He doesn’t miss the gleaming smile that grows on Simon’s face. Penny raises an eyebrow. “Are you feeling alright, Baz?”

 

Baz smirks. “I’m feeling absolutely _top_ ,” he assures, swaying slightly and releasing Simon’s hands. “A little power-drunk, I think. It happened last time, too.”

 

“What did it feel like?” Simon asks, just barely containing his unbridled enthusiasm. “It didn’t hurt at all?”

 

“No. It felt… euphoric,” Baz settles on, eyes half-lidded and looking up at Simon through his eyelashes. (He feels like he might pass out. He hopes he doesn’t pass out.) “It’s what I imagine heroin feels like. Every sense of my body, every last nerve, everything, lit up like a damn Christmas tree, like a supernova, Crowley, like I was on fire in the best way possible.” Apparently, when power-high and giddy like this, he waxes poetic about Simon Snow. “I felt like God. I felt so powerful, and all I could feel was Snow and I, like we were one person. Electricity, fire, static, everything, every single sensation. Like I was convulsing and dying and flying and jumping off a cliff, all at the same time.” He runs a hand through his hair as he rambles like he’s combing through his brain to organize his thoughts. His thoughts are just unorganizable right now, and both Simon and Penny are giving him looks that make him melt a little.

 

“Do it on me,” Agatha says, having heard enough and moving closer to Simon on the blanket.

  
Simon takes a deep breath to steel himself and presses a hand to her knee. (Her knee.) She looks at him expectantly, bracing her body.

 

A beat passes.

 

“…Hold on,” he mutters, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. His eyes are screwed shut, and his dopey smile has long since faded.

 

A minute passes. Then two.

 

“It won’t open,” he says finally, withdrawing. “It’s like the tap was clogged or something. I just…can’t give you my magic.”

 

Agatha’s expression morphed into something akin to frustration, a face Baz has never seen on her. “Well, try harder,” she says, putting her hand on his knee this time.

 

He nods reluctantly and tries again. Penny and Baz share a look. “It won’t work,” Simon says, just as confused as she is.

 

Her look of almost-anger turns to sadness turns to resignation. She always looks sad to Baz. Maybe it’s her downturned, doe-like eyes and long eyelashes. “Why?”

 

“I don’t know,” he whimpers. He sounds genuinely sad and disappointed in himself. “Maybe I used it all up. Or maybe Baz is the only one it works with. I don’t know why.”

 

 _Maybe it’s because I’m undead,_ Baz thinks, but decides against saying out loud.

 

“Maybe your magic just melds well together? I’ve read a few books on it. There’s some people whose magic can work together really well, and some others have completely incompatible styles of magic,” Penny muses.

 

“That’s true. Like me and Bunce, for example. I despise how her magic smells, especially when she gets it all over my bed. No offense,” Baz states matter-of-factly. He’s never been one to censor himself, and he’s not starting now.

 

“None taken,” Penny shrugs. “I hate yours too.”

 

Simon snorts. “How ironic. After years of hating each other, we’re the most compatible.” Baz sees him swallow with that long, tempting neck of his and tack on, “Magickally.”

 

Baz rolls his eyes. “Don’t assume I don’t still hate you, Snow.”

 

Simon sticks out his tongue and Penny laughs. Agatha must have gotten up and left, but Baz didn’t notice her leave.

 

**SIMON**

 

That night, Baz flies awake, sitting straight up in his bed and panting hard from a nightmare. Simon knows this because he’s awake for the same reason. Baz flops back down onto his pillow less than two meters away from him, taking deep, shaky breaths.

 

“Nightmares?” Simon ventures, rolling over to face him.

 

Baz doesn’t respond for a minute, and Simon wonders if he’s already fallen back asleep. “Yes,” comes his quiet reply. “You too?”

 

Simon hears him shift to face him, but he can’t see him in the darkness. He has no idea what time it is. “Yeah.” Silence. An owl hoots outside the open windows. “It’s always so dark,” he whispers, half hoping Baz doesn’t hear him.

 

“It tends to be dark at night,” Baz replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

 

Simon chooses not to let that annoy him. “In the dreams, I mean. It’s really dark, and the Humdrum’s there, and I can’t use my magic. I’m powerless.”

 

“I’m surprised your nightmares aren’t me sucking your blood or some shite like that.”

 

“And… And Penny or Agatha or the Mage is in trouble, and I can’t help them, and they die.”

 

This time, Baz doesn’t have a snarky one-liner.

 

Simon doesn’t know why he decides to spill his guts to Baz, his sworn enemy since day one. They weren’t enemies anymore, though, no matter how much Baz liked to say they were. The minutes pass by, and Simon wonders if maybe now Baz has fallen asleep.

 

**BAZ**

 

Baz isn’t asleep, he’s just trying to think of something to say to make Simon feel better, because Crowley that sad face he sees staring back at him in the dark breaks his goddamn heart. C’mon, Pitch, think of anything to say that’ll make him happy, _anything_.

 

**SIMON**

 

He’s almost about to flip over and bury his face in his pillow when Baz finally speaks.

 

“I used to do ballet when I was younger.”

 

Simon leans up on one elbow, caught completely off-guard. “Ballet?” he echos in disbelief.

 

**BAZ**

 

Aleister Crowley, Baz is a fucking idiot.

 

**SIMON**

 

“Yeah. My parents didn’t want me breaking anything else playing football after I absolutely shattered my elbow, so they put me in ballet when I was nine up until I came to Watford and could join the team.” Baz is still lying on his side facing him, and Simon can’t help but laugh. “Laugh it up all you want, Snow, but I have killer balance.”

 

“I know, it’s just funny to me. Did you wear a tutu?” Simon snickers.

 

He can _feel_ Baz roll his eyes even though he can’t see it. “No, but all the girls did. I was the only boy in a class of about twenty.”

 

“I bet you enjoyed that.”

 

Baz paused. “What do you mean?”

 

“Being the only boy in a class full of girls. All of them must’ve had crushes on you,” Simon says, feeling awkwardness in the room but continuing anyway.

 

Another pause. Was that weird of him to say? Definitely.

 

But then he hears from the other bed, “Girls aren’t my type.”

 

“Huh?” Simon asks, not processing what he said until it’s too late.

 

“I’m gay, Simon.”

 

Holy shit.

 

 _Holy shit_.

 

Two things of note:

 

Number one, Baz called him Simon.

 

Number two, Baz is gay.

 

“O—Oh. Sorry,” Simon stammers, dumbstruck. Baz is gay. Baz, Tyrannus Basilton “Baz” Grimm-Pitch, is gay. Baz, Simon’s roommate of seven and change years, is _gay_. This shouldn’t be as groundbreaking as it is. But it is.

 

**BAZ**

 

Fuck.

 

**SIMON**

 

“I didn’t realize it was so hidden, but you _are_ exceptionally thick.”

 

Simon falls onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling. Huh. Interesting. Cool. Fascinating. Fun. Fresh. Thought-provoking. (It definitely provokes thoughts.) ( _Get your mind out of the gutter, Snow,_ he scolds himself.) Does that mean Simon has a chance? No. Probably not. _Definitely_ not. He struggles to think of something to say to break the silence, and he settles on, “Do your parents know?”   


Another tense silence. Simon is really, really rubbish at this. “Yes. They’re… not exactly happy, though.” He hears shifting. “The Grimm-Pitch lineage dies with me. I only have a sister and a couple of female cousins. Not great for one of the Old Families.”

 

“Oh.” He can’t imagine Baz having children, anyway. (Can vampires have children?)

 

“Oh, indeed.”

 

“This isn’t where I indeed the conversation to go.”

 

“Me neither.”

 

Quiet.

 

“Go on, then.”

 

“What?”

 

“I said my embarrassing thing, now it’s your turn, Snow.”

 

Despite everything, Simon grins like an idiot. “Let me think of one.”

 

“Shouldn’t take too much thought.”

 

“I’m trying to think of one you didn’t cause and don’t know about.”

 

“Well, that narrows the field quite dramatically, doesn’t it?”

 

“It does.” He finally comes up with one that isn’t too incriminating. “I got kicked out of a foster home when I was twelve because I accidentally set my foster sister’s hair on fire.”

 

Baz snorts, and it’s a lovely sound. “How do you _accidentally_ set someone’s hair on fire?”

 

Simon shrugs, flipping back over to face Baz, even though he can’t see him. “She pushed me, and I was already mad, so I kind of went off. It wasn’t that bad, just a lot of smoke and the horrible, horrible smell of burnt hair.”

 

“Splendid. So my secret’s that I did ballet, and your secret’s that you almost killed your foster sibling,” Baz states with a voice laden with sarcasm. Simon doesn’t bother mentioning that that’s definitely not the most important secret Baz just told him.

 

“Yep.”

 

“Go to sleep, Snow.”

 

He does.

 

**BAZ**

 

It’s Simon’s first day back in class, so he’s staying late to catch up on work. Therefore, Bunce decided to come to Baz and Simon’s room to get an update on Snow. (Baz had _wanted_ to escape to the Catacombs to feed during this time since he hasn’t fed in almost five days, but she insisted and he can’t resist talking about Snow.) As nonchalantly as possible, Baz says, “I told Snow I’m gay.”

  
“You _what?_ ” Penny screeches, standing from her perch on Simon’s bed. “When?”

 

“Last night. We were both awake because of nightmares, and we were just talking. About stuff.”  


Penny’s mouth opens and closes a few times like a fish out of water. “W—T—Y—” she stammers, trying to form a sentence and failing. “Talking about your _sexual orientation_?”

 

Baz shrugs. (Simon’s wearing off on him.)

 

“What’d he say?”

 

“He asked if my parents know. I said yes, and then changed the topic.”

 

Penny sat back down, eyes wide. “I can’t believe you two.”

 

Honestly, Baz doesn’t believe it either. Last night felt like a weird fever dream. “At least he’s not homophobic.”

 

**PENELOPE**

 

 _Oh, Baz, you oblivious idiot, if only you knew. Simon’s the opposite of homophobic,_ Penny thinks.

 

**SIMON**

 

Once classes are done for the day, Simon’s ashamed to admit he’s grateful to go back to his room and talk to Baz again. He was so wrong before—being maybe-friends with Baz only made his feelings so much worse and even harder to ignore, which he didn’t think was possible. Not to mention how he knows Baz is gay now. (Merlin, he still can’t believe that conversation happened. He didn’t acknowledge it at all the next day; maybe it _was_ just a dream.)

 

He opens the door and freezes as if he was struck by a **Stand your ground!**.

 

Baz is playing again.

 

He’s already halfway in the door, so he takes one more step and closes it as quietly as he can behind him—he learned from last time—and sits in his bed silently because he’s scared his knees will give out if he stands for any longer.

 

Baz is facing the window, so he can’t make out his expression, but he’s swaying and moving with the music. He’s wearing his uniform slacks that fit him criminally well and a silk white button-up with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone. His hair falls loose around his face, and Simon wishes he would turn just a little more to the left so he could see him proper. The sun’s setting now, though, and it’s casting Baz in a halo of warm light. It’s probably the most attractive thing Simon has ever seen. (Well, maybe not _the most_. Maybe top three.) (The other two spots probably belong to Baz too, though. The prat.)

 

He can see it now, how Baz did ballet as a kid. His movements are so graceful, deliberate, all the way down to the precise finger movements on the…neck? Strings? Long bit? Simon doesn’t know violin terminology, but it’s awfully impressive.

 

This piece is faster than the last one, and to Simon it sounds way harder. A lot of short, high pitched notes that make him wonder how Baz got this good. Must’ve been some pricey private lessons.

 

Once Baz finishes the piece, he pauses, exhaling.

 

“That was wonderful, Baz,” Simon breathes.

 

**BAZ**

 

Baz starts, turning to face him. “I didn’t hear you come in,” he hisses.

 

“Sorry, I just couldn’t bring myself to stop you,” he admits sheepishly. Baz moves to put away his violin, but Simon stops him. “You don’t have to stop,” he says, so quietly that if Baz didn’t have vampire hearing he’s not sure if he would have heard him.

 

Baz pauses, then continues to put his violin away. He wants to push him, wants to hear him say it. He’s always trying to push Snow.

 

Simon looks down and his cheeks turn pink. “…Can you keep playing?” he whispers.

 

Music to his ears. Baz’s hands hover over the clasps on the case, and he has half a mind to refuse, but he relents, picking up the violin again. He’s so bad at saying no to him. “…Do you have any requests?”

 

He finally raises his eyes to look back at Simon, and a grin is splitting his face in half. “Maybe... _Ode to Joy_?” Baz quirks an eyebrow and the corner of his lips turns up. “I know bugger all about classical music,” Simon confesses, scratching the back of his neck.

 

Baz straightens without a word and throws himself into the ever-familiar Beethoven’s ninth symphony. Of course Snow would like this song; it’s optimistic, famous, heroic, grandiose, just like himself. The Chosen One. He struggles to keep the smile off his face when he opens one eye to see Simon absolutely beaming up at him, his undivided attention directed towards him and only him. It feels so nice. Like they’re actually friends. Like if he tried, he could think they’re more.

 

**SIMON**

 

He finishes _Ode to Joy_ (or, at least, the only part Simon knows), and Simon is smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. It feels more intimate than their conversation the previous night, somehow. “Another,” he says, bringing his legs up so he’s seated cross-legged on the bed. He thinks about adding a “please,” but decides against it. He’s not sure where the boundaries on their hesitant friendship lie, but being polite is definitely past it.

 

“Anything specific?” Baz asks, fixing his shirt collar. Those top two buttons show just enough skin to make Simon’s eyes default to looking at his chest, and it’s driving him mad.

 

“Whatever you were playing the first time I saw you,” he decides.

 

Baz’s eyes widen and his eyebrows rise sarcastically. “I’m surprised you remember that, Snow, what with your goldfish-like attention span.”

 

Simon just shrugs. “It’s so pretty and melodic, it’s been stuck in my head pretty much ever since.”

 

“That was two weeks ago.”

 

Simon nods. “I know.”

 

**BAZ**

 

Baz is certain he’d be blushing right now if he had fed recently enough.

 

He turns away slightly so he’s not blinded by stupidly bright Simon Snow and summons his cool, calculating facade. “Jupiter. The name of the song is Jupiter, Bringer of Jollity, composed by Gustav Holst. Specifically, the chorale. It’s part of _The Planets_ suite.” He mentions as much detail as he can to make himself sound smarter, but he doesn’t mention that he was playing it because it reminds him of Simon, or at least, his feelings for him: floating, emotional, strong, dramatic, breath-taking, goosebump-inducing, those butterflies he gets in his chest when Simon smiles at him like he is right now.

 

He plays it, delving back into it as easily as a knife into warm butter, yet his stomach ties itself in a knot. Playing it while Simon’s watching is much scarier than playing it alone. He doesn’t want to disappoint. So he plays it as best he can, careful to perfect his vibrato and inject as much emotion as he can into the bowing. He doesn’t realize his eyes have closed instinctively for the entire piece until he’s done and he opens them.

 

“I think that one’s my favorite,” Simon says, and Baz doesn’t miss how his voice is a little breathless. “Do you have any more?”

 

Baz drags his stand over to the bed where Simon sits and hands him the stack of music. “Pick something. A lot of these are half-learned, but I can sightread pretty well.” Simon thumbs through the sheets, and Baz suspects he’s picking out the ones with the coolest names or the ones he half-recognizes. Baz sits on the bed next to him, making sure to leave a space, and adjusts his stand, anxious for something to do with his hands. (He fidgets when he’s really nervous. Normally, he bounces his legs, but he doesn’t want to be too obvious.)

 

**SIMON**

 

He isn’t sure how long Baz plays for, but the sun’s long since set by the time he’s done, and Simon’s subconsciously scooted so close their entire legs are touching. He’s looking over his shoulder at the sheet music (that he can’t read, but he thinks it looks neat) and occasionally at Baz, watching his bow draw over the strings again and again. He plays through more of _The Planets_ , plus other names Simon recognizes—Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven—and a few he doesn’t, like Rachmaninoff, Paganini, and Kishi Bashi. (He asks if Kishi Bashi is a type of sushi, and is answered by a thump on the side of his head.)

 

After what feels like both an eternity and a split second, Baz tells Simon that he can’t play for any longer or his wrists will fall off.

 

“Sorry for making you play for so long,” Simon says, embarrassed.

 

“It’s nice having an audience as ignorant as you are to music theory,” Baz remarks, running a hand through his hair as he shoves the violin case under his bed again. “I could play Hot Cross Buns with horrendous technique and you’d be convinced I’m a prodigy.”

 

Simon huffs and pushes his shoulder playfully. “Off my bed, prodigy. I have Astronomy homework to do.”

 

**BAZ**

 

Once Baz is sure Simon can’t see him, he lets himself smile.

 

—

 

Simon’s off practicing with his sword, so it’s just Penny and Baz in the room that afternoon. The windows are open again even though Simon’s not in the room—Baz thinks he might actually like the windows open, but he’d rather die of heatstroke than admit that to Simon after seven years of protesting every time the window’s open a crack. Baz is sitting on his bed, laying on his back and tapping his foot. Penny’s in the swivel chair that’s normally parked at the desk, but she’s pulled it between the beds and is holding a bowl of grapes in her lap. She’s throwing them in the air, and Baz is catching them in his mouth as best as he can without magic.

 

“How’s it going? With Simon?” Penny asks.

  
Baz thinks for a second. “I can’t say it’s going badly.”

 

“Deets,” she demands, tossing another grape in the air.

 

“I don’t know. My chest hurts when I see him, even more than it ever did before. I didn’t think it possible to like Simon Snow more than I did, but _Aleister Crowley_ .” He catches the grape in his mouth. Venting everything to Penny is always so cathartic. “Something about how we’re friends now—tentative friends—it hurts more. It _feels_ more. Like my stomach fucking self-destructs every time he walks into the room.”

 

“You’re a big sap, Basilton,” Penny laughs, throwing a grape directly at his eye.

 

He moves (thank you, vampire reflexes) and catches it in his mouth, winking at her victoriously. “Only for Snow.” He wonders if he should continue. He does. “Yesterday, he walked in on me playing my violin and asked me to play more for him. I don’t know how long it was—hours?—but he was so into it. It was nice. I haven’t had an audience in years.”

 

Penny throws one for herself and catches it after doing a 360 in her chair. “Ugh. Simon hated it when I played my flute in second year. Said I sounded like a dying goose.”

 

“Well, did you?”

 

“Of course I did, but he would’ve put up with it if I were you. You’re lucky he’s completely smitten with you.”

 

“Hah!” Baz barks. Fat fucking chance, Bunce.

 

Penny grins as a grape bounces off his cheek. “Mulligan! That was a shite throw and _you know it_ ,” Baz whines petulantly.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is @/bowielesbian <3 Thank you for reading, & please leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


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